


Better Left Alone

by ramel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Junkrat puts his nose where he shouldn't, M/M, couple trapped by storm cliche, events transpiring thereafter not so cliche, the junkers get trapped by a storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramel/pseuds/ramel
Summary: On their way to the coast, two junkers make an unexpected stop. Instead of recharging, they leave in worse shape then they arrived.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I’ve finished in about two years? It also took just over a month to write, with the last two scenes taking like 2 weeks because school started up again and drained all my time away.  
> I’d really love feedback and criticism since this wasn't beta’d. I don't even know how to get a beta.

The sand is getting thicker, growing in intensity as the howl of wind swallows the roar of Roadhog’s engine. The duo had spent the past twenty minutes failing to outrun the impending storm, and Junkrat was bemoaning more then ever not getting new goggles to replace the cracked eye protection he currently had. It made the job of scouting for the potential shelter all the more difficult, though at least they did the job of keeping sand out of his eyes.

Under such circumstances, it was only pure luck that had led them screeching to a halt in front of a house that barely came into view in time for them not to crash into the deck.

“Thank god someone had the know-how to build us a place to stay out here!” Junkrat says happily, jumping out of the sidecar and climbing up the deck to the front door. Acting as if the building had truly been made from him, he starts twisting the knob, clearly locked. When his strength fails to force the door open, he starts rapping on the door, much louder then necessary for any inhabitants to hear.

“Oi, storm’s about to swallow us out here! Let some travelers in, will ya? We’ll be outa your hair moment it’s gone.”

There’s no answer, so Junkrat continues banging away at the door, shouting with about as much politeness as the average junker would have in such a situation. Never one to be patient, he jerks his head over to Roadhog after a minute without reply, who had just dismounted the bike to join him. 

“Bastards ain’t biting.” He muttered. “Gonna have to force our way in.”

He’s annoyed. What good was finding a shelter you had to blow a hole in just to use? Just gonna get the sand and a nasty draft from that. The people who were cooped up in here were about as a bright as an ostrich with its head in the ground to not just open the door.

“No one’s in there idiot. Place is sealed.”

Junkrat twitches, eying the walls of the house, only now noticing thick metal sheets bolted against the structure. Their placement looked as if it were meant to cover any windows that someone may try to break through. Maybe whoever was squatting here had some smarts after all. No matter though, a few blockades weren't going to keep them out for long.

“Just means it’s ours for the taking.” He replies chipperly. Junkrat sets to try prying at the sheets, not wanting to break down any walls unless he actually had too. Wiggling his fingers under what cracks between metal and wooden paneling he could, he attempts a pull to get a feel for how strong it was holding. It doesn’t budge. Rather then seeing how fast he could snap his fingers wrong ways, he looks to Roadhog for assistance, but his call for attention is lost on his bodyguard.

“Quit staring into space. I know you aren’t deaf yet, you old coot. Lend me a strong arm already!”

Why Roadhog had his mind in the clouds when it should be concentrated on getting out of the wind whirling around them was beyond Junkrat, but he was far from short of ideas. He didn’t need the man to accomplish a fifth of what needed doing in life.

It did help that he always happened to have a couple mines on hand as well.

He scuttles over to the sidecar and digs around until he finds one small enough that it wouldn't blow _too much_ of the deck off. A moment is taken to contemplate the amount of C4 to keep before he began adjusting the block to a smaller size.

“You’ll make this place useless if you blow a hole in it.”

Now he decides to lend his thoughts.

“Then maybe you’d care to give me a hand!” Junkrat complains, dropping the mine back in his sidecar. “Considering you’ve got more than double my weight on you I’d figure that some of it has to be muscle! And in case you haven’t noticed we’re a bit short for options on where to hole up, so unless you’re keen to rest under this lousy deck, and lord knows you won’t be fitting under it, I recommend helping me break this place open!”

He turns his attention back to the door. Junkrat walks back onto the porch and places his good foot against the wall next to it, before kicking back for extra force, as he pulls at the handle. The whole scene is rather overdramatic; he twists and curses and still doesn't get anywhere, and Roadhog would have pointed out his disparity, had he not suddenly _walked off_. 

Junkrat groans in frustration, standing up straight and preparing to shout out to his bodyguard again to quit being such a bludger, when he suddenly hears the deep groan of old doors opening. Bouncing out of position, he follows the noise around the house, sliding a hand along its side. He laughed in satisfaction at the sight. A basement entryway, freshly pried open by his favorite lump of muscle.

“Good find mate.” 

They return to the bike quickly, still having to take their belongings from it. The vehicle is quickly chained to one of the pillars holding the deck together, a tarp tied over it to protect it from getting clogged with sand. Junkrat pulls a torch from the satchel he was storing half his possessions in before hobbling back to the basement. “Shoulda gone in and opened the front door.” He grumbled as his peg leg sinks into the build up of dirt brought by the storm. “Sand’s making the ground too lumpy to walk on.”

“Should invest in a proper foot already.”

“Rack off, you tubby bastard.”

They make their way down the short set of steps into the basement, clicking torches on without bothering to search for a switch. Electric was rare for anyone that lived near the coastal cities, and nonexistent out as far as they were. Any generator they did find was likely unusable after decades of sitting about. The darkness wouldn’t be helped much by the sealing off of all the entryways to the house.

Shining his light reveals possibly the greatest sight Junkrat had ever laid his eyes on. Shelves, pressed against the walls, completely filled with cans, jars, water bottles. It had been ages since they had last found old canned food, and this particular stock looked only somewhat used after its assembly. 

“Merry Christmas Roadie.” He smiles his widest, then lets out a shout when he can no longer contain his excitement “Looks like we found where the Salvos keep their stock, eh? Turns out they’ve been hiding a bed and breakfast out in the back of nowhere! Assuming they’ve got beds up there too.” He starts moving towards the stairs.

“Don’t.”

Junkrat turns back to his partner, twitching his shoulder in annoyance at being halted. He furrows his brow at Roadhog, waiting for an explanation.

“Stay down here. Could be a trap.”

Junkrat considers this. “Suppose it’s all awful convenient to come across. Could have rigged the steps or something.” He crouches by the side of them, squinting in the dark for any wires or metal bits that didn’t look like they should be there. “Think that steelwork on the outside is new? Cause that’d explain why its not been taken down yet.”

No reply. But he was asking more to fill in the silence then anything. Junkrat stands up from his squatting position, satisfied with his lookover. 

“If the pantry is this loaded just imagine the rest of this place. Bound to be more supplies laying around they forgot to pack up.” he laughs. “If it’s all the same mate, I’ll risk another limb for the both of us.”

With that, he bounces up the steps, not waiting for Roadhog to so much as grunt in acknowledgement. Even though he knows it’s useless to bother, Junkrat flicks the light switch at the top of the staircase a few times.

“’lectric don’t work.” He barks down as he opens the door to the top floor. Stepping out, he can’t help but feel his enthusiasm dampen, mixed suddenly with a small pit of unease. Every part of the place he casts his torch on appears… disturbingly untouched. For a moment he considers Roadhog’s words about the house being a trap of some kind, because there’s just no way an outback building could stay in such nice condition for this long. The place just feels as if it predates the destruction of the omnium, from the decades old technology still installed in the walls to the dated furniture that just screams 2040’s. Not that modern technology was something often come by in the bush, but Junkrat had seen the look of modern homes on tv, and comparatively, this one was positively rustic. Even still, it managed to be a major upgrade to how most outback homes looked these days. The place was _decorated_ for goodness sake, not with nicked signage and mismatched furniture, but items that had been clearly purchased for the place. There were little porcelain animals lining one of the display shelves for god’s sake. Even with a layer of dust settled upon the room, it managed to be one of the neatest places he’d seen since he was a child.

How fun it would be to tear the place apart.

His torch shines on an entryway. The kitchen. There was plenty of food downstairs, but there was the possibility of finding tools in there. New silverware maybe, to replace the old tin he’d been using for god knows how many years. Could make decent money selling the rest. Lighters, can openers and, dare he fanaticize it, solar chargeable batteries? The possibilities of what could be found in an unlooted house speed through his mind. He makes a b-line for the cabinets, thrusting his hand into them to feel for anything that may be hiding in the back.

“This place is full of stuff, mate.” He says, hearing Roadhog’s footsteps behind him. “Ain’t seen any like this in probably ten years? Dunno, was never good at keeping track o- ah-ha! Hog, you won’t believe what I just found.”

He pulls out a dozen or so small containers, only bothering to hold one as the rest clatter on the counter. A few roll off onto the floor.

“Cond-i-mints!” he exclaims, drawing out the I sound in a way that made it obvious he had only ever read the word. “Loads of them! When’s the last time you saw this many spices in one place? If the stove still worked we’d been able to cook something real ace with these.” He laughs a bit, truly excited to eat preserves that didn’t come from the paltry donations that made their way to the outback every few months. Wasn’t worth running down the lines these days anyway; with the world having lost interest in helping survivors of the blast over a decade ago, there was slim chance that supplies could be given to even one hundred people, and the trucks driving them over were subject to being raided by gangs before reaching their destination.

“Not just canned stuff by spices to go with ‘em! We really did score this time Hog’o.” He says cheerfully, turning over containers to read the names of their content. “Ever tell you ‘bout the first time I found spices? Tried eating ‘em straight I was so hungry. Mouthful of paprika changed my appetite fast though! Figured I’d just sell the rest, till someone told me what they was good for.” He turns to Roadhog, jiggling one of the small containers in front of him.

“This place is a jackpot mate. Worth the delay in our travels, coming in here.”

 

Junkrat insists on eating at the kitchen table. He always does when they have the opportunity to stay in a house. He didn’t necessarily crave normalcy, so much as he enjoyed imitating it, yakking on about how like the tv dramas they occasionally receive in motels he looks the whole way.

“Shit’s cold.”

“But it is seasoned! Nothing but the best for me and my bodyguard. Though we coulda made a little fire with some of the old photo frames in the other room.”

Roadhog grunts in disapproval. Again. The two had a brief fight prior to eating over whether or not to make a fire in the living room, and Roadhog had been annoyingly adamant about leaving the carpet intact. Junkrat knew the man had a soft spot for clean and sweet, and the house definitely had clean covered, but given their track record of tearing apart what little was still intact in the world, he felt peeved that his partner was insisting on leaving be their chance to practice blowing first world buildings sky high.

Still, it wasn’t enough to diminish his good mood. They had more food then they knew what to do with, and free shelter that wasn’t a glorified shack. Practically a five star hotel, sans room service.

“I feel married eating ‘cross a table like this with you.” Junkrat says, a small laugh bubbling out of him as he slouches his elbows across the table, inviting himself into Roadhog’s space. ”Suppose they left their tax papers around too? We could crunch some numbers for the suits before we leave- I have a feeling this place is may be backed on their payments.” His body trembles a little as he titters away at his own joke. “Least we could do for our gracious hosts for holing us up during the terrible sandstorm! People coming round for miles only to get turned away, well, more like blown away- ha! Should have set up a few traps before settling in here – then they’d be getting blown away two ways stead’a one!”

Roadhog lets out a heavy _hmm_ , not appearing amused by Junkrat’s prattle. The younger man frowns, propping himself up just a bit and eyes his partners face, questioning.

“What’s you’re deal mate? You usually laugh at that one.”

Quiet again.

Junkrat groans. “How zoned out are you right now? I know I’m louder then the wind outside so don’t act all like you can’t hear me.” He pauses, trying to figure Roadhog’s thoughts out, on the likely chance the man decided not to share.

“You still worried ‘bout this place being a lure?” he guesses, leaning back now, letting his arms dangle and propping his foot up for a stretch. “Cause I figure at this point anyone who was waiting in here would have made their presence known to us, and anyone else whose planning on coming in and ambushing us isn’t gonna be able to do it in this weather.”

“Get your boot out of my food.”

Junkrat scowls, cocking his head to look. His boot was not, in fact, touching anything but table, but he dragged his foot back, only actually returning it to the floor after his pause was met with a glare.

“We’re off schedule.”

Says Hog, being the one to break the silence for once.

A sigh from Junkrat. Of all the things for him to be so irritable about. It made sense, he supposed. The man had grown up long before the omnic’s destroyed the country. Bloke was probably looking forward to seeing what the rest of the world’s been doing in person after twenty years away from it all.

“Well it ain’t Sydney but we’ll be able to roll in tomorrow just fine. And the couch here looks comfy enough. Though I recon we have access to some real nice beds since this place held up as well as it did. And, you know,” he can’t resist but adding “If they've got one big enough I can think a few ways we can get this storm to move along faster.” He gives Roadhog a quick batting of his lashes before bursting out laughing, dispelling most of the sincerity in his flirtation.

“Couch is fine.”

“Suit yourself Hoggy.” Junkrat replies in a cheerful voice, though his expression falters with a tinge of disappointment. 

 

There’s so much food that for once they can actually eat their fill, and so they eat more then that. Four cans of whatever captured their interest each. Being stuffed puts them in a state of drowsiness, and so they set out to sort sleeping arrangements. Not satisfied to stay in the living room with Roadhog (like there’d even be space on the couch to spare), Junkrat quickly checks the hallway doors until he finds the master bedroom. He tries to coax Roadhog to join him again, but the older man is clear in his intent to stay put. 

“Be an antisocial then. Don’t blame me when you wake up all cramped for trying to fit yourself on that thing.” Junkrat calls down the hall before shutting the door. “More space for me anyway!” he shouts again, diving onto the unused bed. Whoever owned the place liked the little luxuries because the mattress was so light, so weightless that he felt himself sink heavily into it, leaving an imprint behind when he rolls on his back to disconnect his leg.

“I’ve got second watch!” he shouts the claim as he kicks his leg off the bed. Not bothering with the arm, he rolls the side of the blanket over top of himself, settling into the fold. They still hadn’t had a thorough look through any room other then the kitchen, and the living room had only been glossed over, but shuffling through drawers could wait until he was more rested up.

 

He doesn't know how long he was out, but from the fact that he isn’t being shaken awake by Roadhog alone he knows it can’t have been more then a few hours. The storm had died down considerably from the uproar they had to listen to during dinner. The sound of dust shimmering past the windows was preventing much chance of sleep for him, far to stimulating for a mind that could barely keep up with its own thoughts. So Junkrat found himself awake and alert and now fixated on seeing what else the house has to offer.

He twists his leg on lazily, not interested in being caught hopping around the place on the off chance the owner of the place did show face. Even though there was a layer of dust settled about the house, it was, as Roadhog had pointed out, too well stocked _not_ to have someone keeping an eye on it. Using it as storage maybe, judging again on how organized and untouched the upstairs was. The owner was smart, now that Junkrat was contemplating it. Not sleeping with their supplies kept fewer thieves from finding the location of their stock.

“I’m awake.” He mumbles as he exits the bedroom, to let Roadhog know he could go ahead and sleep. No response. Whatever. He was probably too tired from the drive to bother.

Deciding to start somewhere small, Junkrat checks the bathroom he had found while locating the bedroom. There are a few luxury items laid out on the sink – shampoo, the chemical, scented kind that didn't get made in the bush these days. Body spray, some razors – he cant help but collect it all (he was used to using a knife to shave, but the novelty of them gauged his interest, and he could always give them to Roadhog for scrap if he got tired of them. There was a plastic bag in a tiny wastebasket that he fished out to collect the loot. Checking the storage space behind the mirror, he finds a half empty box of Q-tips that he at first deems not worth carrying. But he does take one to clean out his nose. Then a few more for the road after a successful use. He looks thoughtfully at the box before adding it to his bag after all. Another moment’s contemplation, and he gives a yank on the shower curtain as well because hey, how many junkers can brag about having floral rain covers? Roadhog would probably find them appealing, the man always enjoyed the prettier things in life.

With that thought in mind, Junkrat bags the chemical shampoo. Surprise the big guy later by making himself more fancylike.

Returning to the main bedroom, he dumps the bag next to a nightstand and starts ripping drawers open for something of value. Long expired lube. A nice find, though convincing Roadhog it was worth using would take some effort. 

Desk next. Each drawer revealed the boring details of a life of normalcy; little more then the usual papers held onto by high-living coast clingers. Who the hell ever had time to fill out and store this much information? Complete waste of time. He snags a few loose pens, always tradable, a stapler they could smash up for Hog’s gun, little pointless things that are often overlooked by other scavengers, but never himself. Just about anything had a use or three in Junkrat’s eyes, even the boring old files could be used as kindling on a cold night, but they could only carry so much. He finally decided on taking some half used notepads so he’d have something to sketch new traps out on.

He paused when opening a drawer containing a small stack of photos. Junkrat would never admit to feeling such, but something in his stomach would always seize up, a slow, curdling feeling, upon finding something as intimate as a former resident’s memories. They were always taken before the blast, always showing a time he had almost lived in. It was like looking into an alternate world he might have been a part of, and he could never resist peering into it.

As with many other homes he’d torn apart, he instinctually grabbed all of them up, pocketing them for the road. Looking at old photos was the closest thing he had to a pastime, flipping through them one at a time as Roadhog drove them across the plains, wondering what the context of each image could be, making up his own even. He scattered any he didn’t deem interesting in the wind, lost forever to the wasteland, unless some other traveler should stop at the right place, and should happen to have the same strange fascination with the past.

A few stirred to mind as he anticipated the new content he had found. A couple kissing in what looked like the jungle of a foreign country. There was a waterfall in the background, and Junkrat fancied that they were celebrating finding some underground cave to store what loot they had prized themselves with from conquered enemies. The cave had an air pocket were the two could sit and marvel at their own achievements, away from any sorts who would try to take it back from them. It was a perfect getaway, but little did they know their photographer was plotting to betray them and take their loot for herself.

At least that’s what Junkrat imaged was going on in the photo.

Another image he often returned to was of a child, around four or so, staring up into the camera with a smile that rivaled his own toothy grin in sheer wideness. The girl clutches backpack with cartoon characters on it in her arms; the caption “Juanica’s first day!” is plastered below her knees. Doubtlessly, she was jumping up and down with excitement to go to school, unaware how useless the training there would be in the shadow of events to come. She had a few good years into training before the Omnium blew, was able to survive long enough into it to realize that books the government was giving her hadn’t taught her shit on how to defend herself from looters whose patience had worn thin after months of being ignored by bigwigs. Learning what made the world spin would not compare to knowing how to sew up a jacket coming apart at the seams. Knowing history was useless if you couldn’t hunt and gut a goanna on your own. 

He hadn’t decided if she was alive or dead yet. If she were still out there she would laugh bitterly at the sight of her old self, how foolish she was to enter the societal machine that made her soft in those first few years of survival.

The sense of weight against the floor behind him startles Junkrat out of his thoughts. He jerks up to his full height as he turns and faces his partner, standing just outside the doorway. He’s staring at the pile of odds and ends Junkrat had scrounged.

“We’re going.”

He says, not taking his eyes off Junkrat’s hoard.

It wasn’t that big of a mess.

“What do you mean we’re going? Wind’s still going- and we haven’t even seen half this place yet.”

“It’s calm enough. No one else will be out there.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Junkrat admits, nipping at his lip. “But we’ve still got a lot of space to cover here. I’ve not even checked the closet space yet, and I’m craving a new boot.“

“Looks like you’ve got enough to carry right there.”

“Then help me out with this shit, will you?” Junkrat nods over to the array of toiletries and desk bits he had tossed together. “You don’t got a bad back yet so don’t think about milking your age right now. Otherwise start loading us up with the stock downstairs. And get some of them canned beets? Never had beets before, figuring they’re worth a go- Hog?”

Junkrat cuts himself off upon noticing the small tremor that goes through his partner’s body. It wasn’t uncommon for Roadhog to get twitchy when he was tired. When drives went longer when they should, the occasional jerk of a shoulder or shock through a leg weren’t out of the ordinary. Even though Junkrat barely slept, the few hours he got Roadhog had to spend listening for any suspicious movements that may spell trouble for them both. They had been out all day before the storm rolled in, so the man hadn’t got a moment of rest.

“Hey Roadie, lay down a while.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted. And I don’t feel like breaking my neck out there when you swerve into a rock because you’re too tired to drive, you selfish pig. Quite the opposite of your job actually.” He shuffles over to the doorway, runs a hand down Roadhog’s arm, smirks. “We still need to break this bed in anyways, and there’s no one around for miles.” He slurred the last word, a final effort to avoid the last long ride they had to reach Sydney.

The last comment had the opposite effect Junkrat had wanted. Roadhog pulls away, and starts back down the hall.

“I’ll load up supplies from the basement.” He says in a voice that says not to argue the point. “There’s medical supplies down there with the food.”

Junkrat whines as his bodyguard pulls away from him, throws insults across the house as he bags up what he could – and he admits, just to himself, that any more would have been too much to carry as Roadhog had pointed out – before jump-stepping down to the basement. Roadhog is indiscriminately bagging canned goods and water. Probably already collected what he wanted of the medical kits. 

“Know what,” Junkrat says as he drifts over to a shelf of electronics. “This place wouldn't make a bad hidey hole for us. Being completely sealed off all that time? We could probably bar up the exit again before heading out; that way no one gets in and all this food don't go to waste.” The other man stays quiet, focused on his own loot, but Junkrat barely ever expects a response. He starts bagging some batteries that match the ones in his torch. None, to his dismay, are solar chargable.

“Maybe next time we can break that bed. Or smash a wall in, I can think of a few ways.” He continues, a little higher for attention that is still not received. “Maybe actually finish scavenging the damn place! Otherwise we may as well just blow it sky high, since ain’t a soul aside from me seems interested in using it-“

“Shut up.” Roadhog snaps, slinging his bounty over his shoulder. He doesn't wait for Junkrat to reply as he heads to the trap door, cracking it open and stepping out wordlessly. The sound it makes is no worse then when they had pried it open hours ago. Or a night ago? Junkrat was not one to keep note of how much time had passed in any situation.  
Pushy bastard. Junkrat finishes fishing for batteries and heads to the exit, pausing a second to reach out for a can of beets for the road. The stock had barely been touched in their time there.

Christ there was a lot of food. They’d have to come back some day.

Outside there is a mild breeze, chilling the air a bit. It’s barely dawn, just enough light starting to pop on the horizon for them to make their way back to the bike. An acceptable time to head out then. Still disappointing to leave so soon.

Junkrat turns to help close the place off, knocking the second of the hard steel doors down onto the first, and just missing Roadhog’s hand in the process. The older man growls in annoyance.

“Not my fault you were in the way.” Junkrat replies, snorting to cover up his amusement. “You should know after all this time not to get too close to me. With the amount of accidents I cause, I’m surprised you haven’t lost any limbs by now!”

Like most of his jests, this goes ignored.

They remove the covers from the motorcycle and sidecar and load up. Junkrat’s own bags overflow into the foot space, nestling with the trash down there that he’d yet to find a use, or buyer, for. Roadhog unchains the bike from the pillar as he settles, trying to find the best place to wedge his feet in without getting cut by any sharp edges. The start of the engine sends a familiar vibration through the vehicle, one both men are accustom to feeling nearly every day. It makes Junkrat’s muscles feel numb, even to the rattling of the sidecar as it rolls onto the cracked roads on uneven wheels. 

To hell with the bed. There wasn't a more comfortable place to rest then here.

 

Roadhog says they’re in Enngonia now, and it’s always been this quiet, no Omnium blast needed. According to the map it’s also a fuck while off where they’re going.

Junkrat’s slept about as much as he could, and the highway they’re on isn’t nearly as metallic as he assumed it would look (just more television lies brought to him by Hollywood sets). Roadhog says it’ll look more that way when they get closer to the coast, but he’s starting to have his doubts. Fancy white roads were probably just exclusive to the world’s capitals.

Bored of the scenery (even if the trees here are much greener and plentiful then the wastes, it’s not enough to keep his interest), Junkrat finds his hand slipping into his pocket, withdrawing the photographs he had snagged before he and Roadhog had made their leave. It was a decent sized stack, enough to keep his mind busy for an hour or so.

First picture: a women. Black hair, about his age by the looks. Plainly dressed, and looking more then annoyed about being photographed. Her face is wrinkled up in a snarl, mouth parting to let out a shout of protest, fingers gripping the sleeves of her shirt because there was nothing else to latch on to. She was the unlucky victim of an internet prank video, and one of the numbnuts involved had forgotten to set his camera to film. Probably. Their partner in crime might have actually remembered to use video and somewhere out there was a video her being asked out as a joke or being catcalled. This photo, by the look of how tight her fist was clenched, was no doubt taken right before she hit the twit that had planned it.

Maybe though, she just didn’t like photos.

Second picture: same person. This time she’s not paying attention, no, now the lady has a sledgehammer, and has taken it to the porch of the very house they had spent the night in. She’s just pounded it down hard against one of the planks, it’s much too big for the task of nailing it down, so obviously she’s trying to destroy it. Her roommates had fucked up for the last time, and the video pranksters had decided to make memories of her revenge; destroying the shitty porch that her roommates had coerced her into allowing them to make.

Sure the thing was still intact when he and Roadhog had found it, but that was more then likely what was going on here.

Third picture: A blurry photo of rock band, some kind of small concert; basic lightening, definitely local and absolutely better then the sad sacks trying to keep culture alive in the outback. They tried to move to the shore after the blast, but the om’s that survived were on them before they could get close to a hospital. Tragic as their musical career probably was.

And on it went, more and more pictures of Rake – Junkrat had named her in honor of her skinny frame – looking either annoyed or posing fakely for the camera. She was touchy about what she wanted to have taken, he could tell. A shot of her in the kitchen, legs up on the table, a bit of dirt fallen from her boots by a used plate, coffee mug to her lips, the hand holding it coincidently positioned in a way that only her middle finger showed. A photo of the night sky, heavier with stars then Junkrat has ever seen, Rake’s silhouette, peaking out at the bottom of the picture, reflected under their light. Rake passed out on the sofa, Rake free climbing cliffs by the coast, looking down at the camera, laughing (right before falling and breaking her legs, she took it like a champ) Rake fixing a solar panel, Rake posing next to a freshly killed deer, rifle in hand, grinning ear to ear, a blurrier photo of Rake grabbing the photographer’s hand, a lighter tan then hers, fingers thick, larger then life.

Junkrat stares longer then he needs.

A coincidence. It’s an out of focus image.

More photos of Rake. Rake playing with a dog on the carpet of the living room, she’s at its level, on all fours, scratches all over her arm. The dog is going in for more, and she looks thrilled to continue. Rake on the roof of the house, looking furious, there’s a ladder on the ground, lying on its side (time to break another leg). Rake taking a selfie with a man shielding his face, both with their hair up in a topknot. She’s mimicking him and from under his fingers Junkrat can see his teeth bared – most would think it’s a snarl but it’s just the way he smiles when he’s annoyed and happy at the same time.

All too familiar. 

Junkrat feels his stomach sink as if it had turned into a rock. 

Lots of people smile that way.

He quickly slips the picture to the bottom of the pile, pulling a few of the ones behind along with it.

The replacement image: Rake sprawled out on the bed he had just slept in-

No-

Passed out from something didn’t matter really-

New photo: Rake’s face taking up half the view – standing next to the same bed, mischief written on her face, a finger to her lips. _“Revenge!”_ written across the top. A portly man out cold on the bed behind, long black hair tangled in front of his face but it didn’t take a college degree to recognize-

He quickly crushes the photos into his bag, feeling them bend from the pressure. He uses his fingers to undo the damage and then yanks his hand out, zipping the bag shut.

Impossible.

_“Could be a trap.”_

That bullshiter.

_“No one’s in there idiot. Place is sealed.”_

Roadhog hadn't even tried to pry the windows open.

_“Good find mate.”_

Easy to find something you already know the location of.

The refusal to let Junkrat break or burn everything. Stopping just short of entering the bedroom. The look he gave Junkrat when he saw he had started going through the place. The insistence on leaving so early that morning. The twitchiness, the unusual level of aloofness.

And he had only just noticed something being off when Roadhog had made him prepare to leave.

He glanced at Roadhog, careful not to actually turn his head towards him. Had he noticed Junkrat flipping through his personal photos? No. There was no way he wouldn’t have pulled over, ripping the pictures from Junkrat’s hands, screaming at him, kicking him to the curb, leaving him for dead. No way he would not react in some way that either threatened or full on ended Junkrat’s life.

The cutesy knickknacks everywhere should have tipped him off.

He doesn't know what to do. The best option would be to toss them now, dangle his arm out of Roadhog’s sight and let the wind catch the unwanted souvenirs. One or two at a time, so he didn’t question the sudden fluttering of dozens of photographs behind him. But leaving them to the elements feels deeply wrong. Throwing away his best man’s past would just be… traitorous.

Hanging on, however, feels just as deceitful. Waiting to role into a town where he can slip his findings into the trash piles (trash cans- he reminds himself that there’s actually a place to properly dispose of unwanted things where they’re going) would really be no better. 

Burning them was a possibility; destroy the evidence of the crime he had committed. But getting away from Roadhog long enough to complete the task would prove difficult; the man already made it clear that he intended to keep Junkrat in his sight at all times once they made it to more civilized society. And if he tried burning something under his snout the man would undoubtedly have questions for him.

Fessing up, apologizing, begging forgiveness and promising never to mention a thing he had seen, was, of course, the honest response. But even if by some miracle Roadhog decided to brush off the whole incident, the knowledge of the betrayal would be in the back of both their minds. What’s more, Junkrat would then be responsible for stirring up uninvited memories for his partner. He had no idea how often the man reminisced, but judging by the fact that they had been together for a year and he still didn’t know the guy’s name, he could safely assume that Roadhog was not particularly nostalgic for his old life. 

Hell, Hog was the one who had left those photos behind in the first place. He clearly didn't want to think back. He never even gave so much as an implication of the past that Junkrat had accidently exposed himself too. The man had clearly wanted to forget. Didn’t have the nerve to mention where they were, never acknowledged that they had literally just moseyed on into his long since forgotten _home_. Probably would have stayed in the storm if Junkrat hadn't been with him. 

No, Roadhog would not want to see these. Especially in the hands of Junkrat.

As dread continued to course through his body, It occurred to him that Hog would be likely to avoid going down there again, lest Junkrat uncover the secrets locked up in that house. Which meant any chance to slip the photographs back where they were meant to be and forget they even existed was out of the question completely. It also came to Junkrat’s mind that they weren’t planning on returning to the outback for a long time. He didn’t have a chance getting away with hanging onto the photos that long.

He should have just done what he was told and stayed in the damn basement.

Get rid of them; risk Roadhog catching him in the act. Feel like the worst excuse for a friend this side of Oz for throwing out his partner’s memories.

Keep them; until the inevitable day Roadhog find the stash, catches one falling out of his bag. Feel like scum for pretending he didn’t just unearth his mate’s personal history and decide to hang onto it for safekeeping.

Either way Hog would be furious.

Either way Rat had seen what he shouldn’t.

Fuck all; his partner was going to pick up soon that something was wrong. Junkrat’s leg was already starting to shake anxiously. Hog could read him like an open book, knew when he was thinking hard about something, and the level of it’s importance depending on how much Junkrat actually wanted to talk about it. He’d notice the quiet too. And if the meaningless babbling was just that or him trying to avoid what was really on his mind. And with the way Junkrat got fixated on things, he was going to be hard pressed to get his own head to change topics for the next several days.

He should have picked up on things sooner.

“What.”

Came the last voice he wanted to hear, gruff, accusatory, aware. _I can feel you shaking the whole vehicle I know something is on your mind_ , Junkrat translates out of the single word.

“Gotta piss.”

Is his weak reply. He folds his arms, trying to look needy, and it’s easier to fake because he honestly has been holding in a leak for several minutes now, either due to all the syrup in the fruit can he drank from the night before, or from his nerves getting the better of him. Probably both.

Roadhog, fortunately, doesn’t care to inquire. He pulls over, and they both take a tree, plenty of distance between the two. The most they’ve had from each other since leaving the house, yet Junkrat can feel tension radiating in the air, being absorbed into his gut. Even if he was unaware of what Junkrat now possessed, Roadhog was certainly on edge from having to spend so much time back there.

As he finished, it occurred to Junkrat that he could have snuck the photos in a bush here while Roadhog was completely distracted. He had lost that chance now; going back and forth from the sidecar would be too suspicious.

They stretch out sore muscles in silence, and Junkrat prays that Roadhog doesn't feel like questioning it. He doesn’t, and they roll out once more.

Roadhog says they’ve got another eight and a half before they reach Sydney. They’ll probably stop somewhere to eat, maybe rest, before getting there. Junkrat acknowledges him, and at the mention of food decides to have something to hold him over until then. He’s happy to see at least one can in the foot space available to him – god forbid he have to open his bag to find something right now.

Using the knife he kept on his belt, Junkrat cuts open the top, and fishes out one of the vegetables with his fingers. The label didn’t underestimate the deep red they would be.

“Beets, yeah?” he says out loud, turning the slice over in his hand, squeezing a bit of juice out of it. “Think they'll make me better at hand to hand?” he asks, just loud enough to be heard over the engine.

“… The hell do you mean?”

“Well considering the name, I’m figuring help me get a lot better at _beating_ up enemies, eh?” Junkrat faces Roadhog directly; waggling his eyebrows to ensure his humor gets through to the man. Stay cool. Be normal.

Roadhog turns his face to his, and he feels his body chill, because it’s the first time they’ve looked at each other all day and he’s face is bare to read and Hog’s is hidden.

He laughs.

There’s nothing about it that sticks out, it’s not forced, because Hog never forces anything, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable. It’s genuine, real laughter, the kind that causes his shoulders to shake and his belly to ripple. And its exactly what Junkrat needed to hear right now. He joins, collapsing in the sidecar, tightness in his stomach loosening at last.

He had hours to find out what to do. By the time they reached Sydney he’d have a plan.

Everything would be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Time for fun facts:  
> This is the longest one shot I’ve ever written. I’m actually kinda proud of it, but mostly just mad at myself for wanting to write a follow up. Damn me.  
> The first draft of this has a bunch of internal monolog from Roadhog, mainly so I could know what he was thinking while Rat was being a brat. Kinda wished I were writing his POV the whole time now but it wouldn't have been the kind of story I wanted to tell that way.  
> Don’t ask why Junkrat was so insistent on trying beets. He’s never had them and got excited and a voice in my head just kept telling me to _give this poor man his beets_. So beets he gets. He’ll probably be disappointed once he actually eats them.  
>  I imagined there were some nudes in that desk, but there was no way Junkrat wouldn't have immediately said something and gotten his ass beaten to a pulp. I really wish I could have written that actually.  
> I listened to the entire Poets of the Fall discography while writing this.


End file.
